


Oh Boy

by sonofabiscuit77



Category: The Beatles
Genre: 1960s, Circle Jerk, Historical, M/M, Multi, Mutual Masturbation, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 08:42:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonofabiscuit77/pseuds/sonofabiscuit77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oh how can I explain this, basically, it's a Beatles circle-jerk fic, and John has a lovebite on his neck. That is all. There's no plot. Set in 1964, during first US tour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh Boy

John’s at the bathroom sink, comb in hand, tie gone. He leans into the mirror, his collar flips open and Paul sees it: a mark, purple and livid against John’s skin. A lovebite. It’s in the crook of his neck and shoulder, the place normally covered up by his collar and tie. Even John’s not stupid enough to get marks like that in places that will show. Still, though.

Paul blinks, goes back to fixing his hair. He can feel John’s eyes on him, and he knows with a sickening sense of dread, that John has noticed him looking. He won’t hear the end of it now. John will seize upon it with his usual mercilessness.

“See something you like?” John says. He looks terribly pleased with himself. And very amused, that John way of being amused that’s half sneering and half ridiculous.

Paul gestures with the comb, waves it vaguely at John’s reflection. There’s no point pretending now, the game is up. “That, on your neck,” he says.

He sees John’s gaze flick downwards, sees the way his lip tilts up, smug, and even more pleased with himself. “Oh yeah. That,” he says. “How clumsy of me.”

He smirks and pulls away from the mirror, strolls out of the bathroom, whistling. Fucking whistling.

Paul stares after him and tries not to scowl.

The thing is though, there’s no one here to give John a lovebite. They go from hotel room to car to backstage to show to backstage to being hustled back into the car to the hotel room. They’re practically being kept under lock and key, fans shouting and chanting outside the windows all bloody day and night. So far no girls have even been in the suite. A couple of fans have tried but they’ve all been chased away by the security guards. It’s just the four of them, and Brian and Nell and Mal. And really... the thought of Mal or Nell giving John a lovebite. No. It’s not possible. Which leaves Ringo and George and Brian. Brian, well, whilst John likes to tease Brian and Paul’s quite sure Brian would _like_ the opportunity to get close enough to John to actually do something like that, it's never going to happen. As for George and Ringo. Impossible too. Unless this is some elaborate ploy of John’s to purposefully annoy him, to get him thinking and puzzling about it and dwelling on it. And yes, that’s probably exactly what John’s done. He’s bribed or roped or intimidated George or Ringo into doing that to him. For a laugh. Well, great, that’s really bloody funny, John. Hilarious.

John’s playing cards with Ringo by the time Paul finally comes out of the bathroom, whingeing loudly about cheating scousers. Ringo’s taking the insults with his customary nonchalance, not even bothering to comment on John’s epic hypocrisy. Paul throws himself down on one of the sofas, picks up a crumpled copy of _Melody Maker._

He can hear George from one of the bedrooms, hear the strum of his guitar. He listens to the chord progression, recognises _Oh Boy_ by Buddy Holly. The words echo in his head: _All my love, all my kisses, you don’t know what you’ve been a-missin’…._

At the card table, John starts to whistle again, picking up the melody from George’s playing. He tosses his cards onto the table with a disgusted snort.

“Fuckin’ cheating bastard,” he says. Ringo ignores him, leaning over to gather up the cards, rings flashing as he shuffles and sorts. Getting no rise from Ringo, John launches to his feet, starts pacing, all jittery and on edge, and Paul wonders if he’s taken anything. He watches him from over the top of the paper, sees him walk into the bedroom, hears him say, “Hey, George, gi’s a fag.”

The rumble of George’s voice is quieter, muffled and indistinct compared with John’s. At the card table, Ringo finishes shuffling and starts to lay out the cards for clock patience, cigarette dangling from between his lips.

Paul rereads the sentence dancing in front of his eyes. There are pictures of the four of them in the paper, photographs taken at the press conference they gave in New York a week ago in the news section. Old news, he thinks. They’re not on the front cover though, that’s The Animals this week. He shakes a cigarette out of the packet lying on the arm of the settee and lights up.

“What you reading, Paul?”

John’s voice startles him. He blinks, tosses the paper aside, weirdly embarrassed. “S’nuttin,” he says. “Just. Paper, you know.”

John nods, drags on his cigarette. He doesn’t look interested anyway. “Jesus, you think you can get a cup of tea in this place? I’m mad for a cup of tea.”

Paul licks his lips. A cup of tea would be nice right now. He hasn’t had one since they arrived in California which was... three, four days ago? “You should ask Brian,” he says. “See what they say.”

John nods distractedly. He’s looking past Paul, past Ringo, towards the windows of the suite. “Haven’t they got anything better to do?” he says contemptuously.

It’s something he says a lot, that biting contempt for their fans, the screamers at least, the ones who really don’t seem like they have anything better to do that crowd outside their hotel and scream and cry and tear their hair and piss themselves. Paul can remember a time when he found it awe-inspiring and unnerving, now it’s just annoying. He watches John stride to the window and plant his hands on the ledge. He hopes John’s not going to bait them, not going to show himself. Things’ll just get worse if he does that. The cigarette John scrounged off George is burning low in John’s hand, filter crumpling, if he’s not careful he’s going to burn his fingers and then he’ll be whingeing for days about not being able to play guitar properly. He’s squinting out through the window, face all scrunched up. He's not wearing his glasses so there’s no bloody way he can see anything out there. It’ll just look like a blur to him, a heaving, indistinct, blur. Then again, most of the time, their fans just look like a blur to him too.

John pushes out a sigh, clicks his tongue against his teeth. He turns, plants his backside against the wall, hands still curled around the ledge behind him. He lifts his right hand, drags on his cigarette.

“Stupid twats,” he mutters.

“Hey, them’s our paying fans,” Ringo admonishes with a shake of his head. He looks up from his game. “They pay good money for our records. Keep us in the style we’re accustomed to.” He sweeps his hand around the suite.

Paul snorts. Sometimes he can’t honestly tell when Ringo’s being sarcastic or when he’s being genuine.

 

***

Brian asks someone at the hotel about tea. They bring up these little metal teapots with one bag inside, with these dainty cups and saucers. The tea is weak, lukewarm, the water tastes like it hasn’t been boiled properly.

“Tastes like piss,” Paul says, spitting a mouthful back into the cup.

Beside him, George nods mournfully. “Should’ve remembered to bring some with us. Put it on the list for next time. Why can’t Americans make tea properly?”

“Fuck it and fuck ‘em, let’s get drunk,” John says.

Paul shrugs agreement. At least rum and coke tastes like rum and coke here.

John gets a bit mellow after a few drinks. He plonks his feet onto the card table, slides down in the armchair. His shirt is wrinkled, one of the tails has come loose from his trousers, the top two buttons are undone, exposing his collarbone and the mark on his neck.

“You better make sure Brian don’t see that, Johnnie,” Ringo says, gesturing at the lovebite on John’s neck with his drink, ice cubes chinking against the side of the glass. “Thought you two knew better than that.”

Paul scowls at Ringo, the irritation churning in his stomach tightens. “Don’t be fuckin’ stupid, Ring. I didn’t do it.”

John leers at him. “But you wished you did.”

“Fuck off,” he says automatically.

John cackles in glee, slurps on his drink. He holds the liquid in his mouth, sloshes it around, cheeks plumping like a hamster. He swallows and raises his eyebrows, leers some more.

Paul can feel George looking between the two of them, eyes darting backwards and forwards like he’s watching a tennis match. Ringo is as calm as ever, laid out on the sofa, head on one arm, feet on the other, blowing smoke rings up at the ceiling, in his own little world. Paul sometimes wonders what it would be like to be in Ringo’s world, to go through life seeming so carefree and easy. Then again, maybe Ringo isn’t like that at all inside, maybe he’s just as fucked up and crazy as the rest of them.

“Hey, you know something we haven’t done in a while?” John says. He’s using that dangerous tone, the one that’s full of malevolent glee.

George exchanges a look with Paul; it’s the one that says: are you going to bite or shall I? Because one of them has to. John won’t stop until one of them has taken the bait.

Paul sighs, says evenly, “No, what is that, John?”

John puts his hand on his crotch and raises his eyebrows at Paul. “You do me, I’ll do Georgie boy. Ring, how about you?”

“I’m grand, son. Just grand,” Ringo says.

“You’re missing out,” John says.

“Nothin’ I can’t handle meself.” Ringo raises his left hand, waggles his fingers in the air.

John scoffs, “Poofter!”

Paul sniggers then, he can’t help it, coke bubbles rushing up his nose. He splutters, opens his mouth, the laugh comes out jagged and ridiculous. John is regarding him with eyes alight, he looks maniacal.

“Get your arse over here, McCartney, I’m not waiting all bloody night,” John says.

Paul obeys because he’s already half-hard, his dick pressing against the fly of his trousers. He watches George shuffle off the other sofa, plop down onto the carpet into an ungainly sort of a sprawl. John cackles again and slides off his armchair more gracefully. He’s already unzipped his fly, already got his hand half crammed down his trousers. He wriggles around on the floor, slides the flaps of his trousers open, pushes his underpants down over his arse. His cock flops out, hard and thick. He grabs the base, gives it a squeeze. Paul stares at the blood-red head, watches a bead of pre-come pearl at the tip and slide down. He licks his lips, he knows how that tastes. He’s had John’s cock in his mouth more often than he’s wiling to admit.

He can feel John’s eyes on him and he glances up, sees the knowing look on John’s face. He licks his lips ostentatiously at Paul, simpers at him. Paul glares at him, and John laughs, elbows him in the stomach, Paul elbows him back.

“Rule number one, no foreplay,” George cuts in. They hesitate, both turning to stare at George. George shrugs at their blank faces, says, “Your rules.”

“The lad’s right,” Paul says with a glance at John.

John rolls his eyes. “Alright, alright, let’s get on with it.”

Paul unzips his fly, pushes his shirttails out the way and pulls his trousers down over his bum. He’s got to wear this suit tomorrow; he’s not getting wank stains on it. He frees his cock from his underpants, drags his fingers over his balls. From the corner of his eye he can see George doing the same.

He jumps when John’s fingers brush against his own, pushing his hand out of the way. “’Ere, move,” John says.

Paul lets go of his own dick, flinches when he feels John’s hard, calloused fingers curl around it. He flicks a sideways glance at John, sees him regarding him through slitted, glittering eyes. “You gunna leave poor Georgie hanging?” John says. They’re sitting close, knees brushing together through the scratchy posh fabric of their suit trousers.

“Shut up,” Paul mutters. He leans over, shuffles a bit so they’re practically knee to knee, the three of them like an equilateral triangle. He reaches for George’s dick, wraps his fingers around it. It feels smooth and soft under his fingers, like silk. He feels George flinch, tremble, his dick seems to jump, like it’s throbbing in his hand, like he’s feeling the pulse of the blood beating around George’s body through his cock. He raises his eyes to George’s face. He’s biting his lip, not quite meeting Paul’s gaze. George is always a bit like that when they do this, like he’s ashamed. Paul got over feeling ashamed a long time ago. Touring has that effect on him, makes him feel like this is all their life is now. It’s always just the four of them and that’s alright, he’s alright with that. He got used to the idea of it just being them all the time years ago.

“Ready?” John asks. He takes his hand off Paul’s dick, spits into his palm, a big, gobby ball of saliva. He puts his hand back on Paul’s dick. It’s all sticky, warm, but nice, smoother. John knows how he likes it.

“Winston Churchill,” Paul says.

George and John snort out a laugh, breath hissing and fizzing as they start to stroke each other. John gives Paul’s cock a hard jerk that makes him overbalance and lose hold of George’s dick. John cackles again and Paul shoots him a murderous look. He steadies himself, braces his hand on his knee and grabs for George’s cock again. They’ve got a rhythm, the three of them, just like they always have, just like when they’re playing a song, all of them in synch, all that’s missing is Ringo’s steady backbeat.

Paul closes his eyes, lets the warm bubbling sensation in his belly flood into the rest of his body, make him feel heavy and lethargic and tingling. It helps that they’ve done this so many times before, it helps that John’s good at this, that John knows exactly how Paul likes it, knows how to stroke up and down, how to flick his thumb over the slit and fondle his balls on the way down. John’s a dickhead a lot of the time but he can be considerate when it comes to sex stuff, and he takes it as a point of pride that he can toss Paul off in two minutes flat. Still, after being cooped up here for two days with no release, it’s not that surprising that they're all so ready to knock one out.

Paul opens his eyes, blinks at his two bandmates. George has his eyes screwed shut, his eyebrows knotted, looking just like he does when he’s trying to master a tricky chord progression, his lips are parted, breath coming in tight and heavy bursts. He’s close too, Paul recognises the signs. He drags his palm over the head of George’s cock, feels smug when he sees George tremble. On his other side, John’s got his eyes open; the corner of his mouth turns up when he sees Paul looking, he passes his tongue over his lips, teasing and knowing. Paul stares back at him, feels his own pulse hammer in his throat and lower down in his groin.

“C’mon,” John urges, his voice low, cracked like it gets when he’s been singing for too long. “C’mon. Brigitte Bardot, lads, fucking Brigitte Bardot. Big tits. Big fat squashy tits in your hands.” He groans, starts wanking Paul’s cock quicker, “Burying your face in them, in those big fat titties.”

George groans and Paul feels George’s dick pulse in his hand, feels the splash of George’s come on his fingers. He’s really close now, John’s voice helping him to the edge. John leans over, grabs hold of his knee, peering up into his face as he roughly yanks at his cock. “That’s right, just like that,” he hisses. Paul stutters, glances down at where George’s guitar calloused fingers are wiping away the remnants of John’s come. It’s just him left. He’s won. The knowledge makes him feel smug and he lets go, lets it all rush through him, buzzy and high. He closes his eyes and lets John work him through it, muttering obscenities through clenched teeth, his smoky, coke-flavoured breath in Paul’s face.

 

***

“So, who gave you that?” Paul asks later. They’re cleaned up, changed for bed, still hanging around though, not ready for sleep just yet. He thinks George’s already gone to bed, maybe even Ringo. It’s just him and John, last men standing. He has no idea what the time is.

John spits toothpaste into the sink, gives him a considering look in the mirror. “Don’t you remember?” he says.

Paul blinks. Should he remember? Did he do it? When did he do it? Things have been crazy recently – though that’s the biggest fucking understatement in the world – but they’ve been running from place to place with hardly any sleep, too much alcohol and pills. But still. He’d remember, wouldn’t he? If he’d given John a lovebite.

John smirks, turns until he’s facing him, hip against the sink. He reaches out, snags his fingers in Paul’s pyjama collar, tugs him forward. Paul stumbles a bit, puts his hand on John’s shoulder to steady himself. He shivers when he feels John’s hand slide under the hem of his pyjama top, fingers caressing the small of his back.

“You did it, you stupid wanker.”

Paul blinks. “Me? When?”

“Couple of days ago. Don’t remember where. We were bored.” John shrugs, like he should get it now, like just the fact of them being bored would make him pin John down and bite a mark into his skin. It’s not something he’s ever done before, it’s not something he even knew he wanted to do before and he’s even more shocked that John would let him do that. But now, looking at that mark – _his mark?_ – on John’s shoulder he’s wondering why he's never thought about doing it before. “You woke me up,” John adds, like that should make it completely obvious what he’s talking about. “Hey, maybe you were sleepwalking, maybe your innermost desires came out and you couldn’t resist me. ‘Cause we all know how it is. How much you’re _pining_ for me. How much you _love_ me.”

Paul rolls his eyes at him, puts his hand on John’s chest to push him away. “Shut up.”

“You’re always telling me to shut up.”

“’Cause you’re always talking bollocks.”

John barks out a laugh and jerks away from him, reaching to mess up his hair. Paul ducks away from the hand, scuffles him up against the sink. “You can do it again if you like,” John says. His voice is a bit breathy, the look in his eyes daring, “Or maybe, maybe you want one too? Right about—“ he puts his hand on the side of Paul’s neck, strokes down one of the tendons to the meat of his shoulder –“here. You want that, Paulie?”

He swallows, sees John track the ripple of his throat. His fingers feel hot and real against Paul’s throat. He’s always been sensitive there, always liked it when girls kiss his neck. He imagines John doing it, imagines the scrape of John’s tongue against his throat, through the light stubble, pictures it like soft-grain sandpaper. It doesn’t surprise him that John knows he’s sensitive right there. John knows everything about him, especially his weak points.

His dick is getting stiff again, his heart beating fast, his cheeks feel like they’re on fire. His gaze flicks to John’s face, John licks his lips, then moves, sudden and abrupt, pushes him up against the sink. He grabs onto the collar of Paul’s pyjamas and yanks it aside. He dives in like he’s a vampire in one of those old films, mouthing and slobbering at Paul’s skin before his teeth clamp down and he starts to suck.

Paul shivers under the onslaught, clutches at John, fisting handfuls of his pyjama top. His dick is fully hard now and he arches forward like he can’t help himself, his dick pressing up against John’s hip.

“For the love of all that is holy,” Ringo says. John lifts his head; his mouth is shiny and smeared with spit, that gleeful look is back in his eyes. Paul peers around John’s head, sees Ringo standing in the doorway holding his hands up in a preacher man pose, cigarette smoking between two fingers.

“Giving us your blessing, Ring?” Paul says.

John sniggers, throws his arm around Paul’s neck to drag him around, he shuffles them both forward.

“Oh yeah, you make a lovely couple,” Ringo says, dry as dust. He takes a drag on his fag, blows out a long stream of smoke before he turns and shuffles back into the suite.

John tugs his arm away, puts his hand on Paul’s collar and straightens it. “You should keep it buttoned up. Don’t want our beloved fans to see what a dirty little slag you are.”

Paul elbows him away. “Get off!”

John laughs and strides out the room, singing gustily, “ _All my love, all my kisses, you don’t know what you’ve been a missin’, oh boy when you’re with me, oh boy, the world can see, that you were meant for me…_ ”

 

The End.


End file.
